


no one here wants to fight me like you do

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Penis In Vagina Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6551452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Say it again,” she says, tightening her hands on his thighs. She has no illusions about who is in control in this situation, but oh, she can try.</p><p>“<i>Root</i>,” Harold says, and she leans down to kiss the sound from his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one here wants to fight me like you do

**Author's Note:**

> So Dana suggested "Root sitting on Harold's lap and Harold narrowing his eyes and ending up giving her a mindblowing orgasm" and things just escalated from there. I AM WEAK FOR ROOT/FINCH, DANA, YOU KNOW THIS. RUDE. 
> 
> Title from "Combat Baby" by Metric.

There is a certain aesthetic to working in an abandoned subway station, but some days Root would honestly prefer having central heating over style. She finds Harold's jacket carefully folded over the back of a chair and picks it up: it smells like the green tea he drinks, the Indian takeout they had for lunch, like chalk and old books and libraries. Root puts it on, the shoulders too wide, the material thick and heavy on her frame.

"Harold?" There is a metallic noise from under one of the desks.

"A hand, please?" Harold's voice says after a moment.

Root crouches down. He has been taking apart one of the servers, motherboard dissembled, cables and tools everywhere. "Did you sit on the floor the whole time?" Root asks, helping him to get up. He leans against her, swaying a little, and it gives her an absurd kick of pride.

"I didn't think that it would take that long," he mutters. He limps out of her sight to clean himself up. "Are you wearing my suit jacket?"

"I was cold," Root complains, lounging in his desk chair. She wraps herself up in the fabric, inhales the scent of it, feels the texture against her cheek.

Harold stands next to her: his hands are clean, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has missed some dark streaks on his arm, and there is a smudge of black on his forehead where he must have wiped it with the back of his hand. "You're sitting in my chair," he says.

Root grins. "So?" As much as she enjoys winding him up, his back probably hurts. Root gets out of the chair and lets him sit down.

"You could have waited until I got back," she says, chiding. Then, she grins, the sharp, real kind of grin she rarely shows anyone. "Also I'm still cold."

"You should issue a formal complaint with your employer," Harold says dryly.

Root grins and slides into his lap. She knows that it's a good idea right away: the _warmth_ of him through the fabric of his clothes, the way his hands land on her hips like he is afraid she will fall down. "Or you could do something to warm me up," Root says, tugging playfully at his tie.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her. "I could make you some tea, if you'd like."

She bites her lip. He is in a good mood, she can tell: Harold in pain, Harold frustrated or tense would have told her to get out of his lap already, or made his exasperation more clear. Instead, he runs his hands over her arms through the fabric of his jacket.

"It suits you," he says, frowning a little, like he is surprised. "Then again, I assume everything does."

"How nice of you," Root says. When she leans forward, her hair is brushing his cheek. "Now, what do we do about that heating situation?"

“On such short notice? Maybe I can convince John to bring down a space heater,” Harold says.

“Now you're being dense on purpose,” Root says. She slips her hands between the fabric of his waistcoat and shirt and leans close, her lips almost brushing his cheek.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Harold considers her with the same concentration he applies to his work, and it's sweetly, irresistibly intoxicating.

“While I am willing to concede that it looks much better on you than it ever did on me, I believe this is still mine,” Harold says, tugging at the jacket.

“Do you want me to take it off?” Root asks. She shifts on his lap, moves closer to him.

“If you wouldn't mind,” Harold says. His pupils widen, betraying his casual tone.

Root removes her hands from the warmth of the fabric and lets the jacket slide off her shoulders. She folds it in half and places it on the desk next to them. Harold moves his hands to rest on her bare arms, making her shiver.

“This does not exactly help to make me feel warmer, Harold,” Root says.

He places two fingers under her chin and guides her head down until their mouths meet: Root makes a delighted little noise, squirming against his lap. Harold isn't shy, the press of his mouth against hers insistent, and then she opens her lips slightly and he licks into her mouth in a way that makes her grip the back of the chair with both hands.

“Does this?” Harold asks, when they part.

“I think you can do better than that, Harold” Root says, voice rough with a sudden, violent shiver of desire under her skin.

“You occasionally tend to overestimate my abilities, Root,” Harold says, but it's not unkind.

She inhales at the sound of her name in his mouth, _Root_ , the name he uses like a piece in chess sometimes: not that she can blame him. She appreciates manipulation, especially this expertly done.

“Did I say something that you like?” Harold asks, sliding his hands over the neckline of her top, barely grazing skin; as if Harold Finch doesn't know exactly what he is doing every second of every day.

“Say it again,” she says, tightening her hands on his thighs. She has no illusions about who is in control in this situation, but oh, she can try.

“ _Root_ ,” Harold says, and she leans down to kiss the sound from his mouth.

Kissing Harold is a thrill, a rare pleasure; Root could do it for days. She runs her hands over his waistcoat, works his tie open, giddy that she is granted permission. In exchange, he tugs at her top until he has pulled it free from her pants and undoes her button and zipper.

A list of things that she did not expect: he kisses _dirty_ , a hint of teeth and the slide of his tongue like it's absolutely certain where this leads; the way he has his hands all over her, possessive.

A list of things that she did expect: he is a multi-tasker, slipping his hands beneath layers of clothing while kissing her, pulling her closer; his hands are nimble and quick.

A few minutes of this and she is panting, her nipples hard beneath her flimsy shirt, and she is gripping the fabric of his waistcoat, holding on. Root has shifted her position so she can slide up against Harold's thigh, and then Harold moves his leg just _so_ and she is in a perfect position to rub herself against it, needy like a dog in heat.

“Still cold?” Harold asks, a delightful hint of malice in his eyes. He undoes another button and slips his hand beneath her shirt and bra, fingertips caressing her breast.

Root has a witty reply prepared, but then she shifts position slightly and moans instead with delightful friction. He slides a hand against her neck and pulls her down, his hands tightening in her hair when she kisses him. Root starts to move away, just to see what he will do, and he tightens his grip and holds her in place, catching her lower lip between his teeth, a warning. Root shudders against him, impossibly turned on.

“This is much better than a space heater,” she manages.

Harold, apparently not pleased that she was able to string a complete sentence together, slides his hand between her legs, his thumb pressing down over the seam of her jeans. She curses and holds on to his shoulders, thrusting against his hand. It's not _precise_ enough with so much fabric between them, despite her writhing in his lap she can't seem to get the friction she needs to get off.

“Harold,” she groans against his throat, _please, please, please._

“Yes, my dear?” He says close to her ear, and god, _that_ is nearly enough to make her come, even knowing that he says it in jest.

Root pointedly rubs herself against his hand. He slips his hand through the open zipper, fingertips brushing her through her underwear, soaking wet.

“I see,” Harold says, with infuriating patience. “Take your pants off.”

She gets off his lap and onto unsteady feet to pull down her jeans along with her underwear before realizing that she is still _wearing her boots_ and spending an embarrassing minute tugging them off through the bunched-up legs of her jeans. Harold leans back in his chair, apparently unconcerned.

“Are you in a hurry?” He asks, in a smug voice, while she is so wet she feels she must be dripping down her legs.

She frees herself and climbs back into his lap, the air cold against her bare ass and thighs. “You might have to get that suit dry-cleaned,” she says, rubbing herself against the coarse material of his pants.

“The service I use is rather discreet,” Harold says, unconcerned. He slides his fingers down her spine and then cups her ass, making her gasp.

“Reese occasionally comes all over your suits, I imagine,” she says pleasantly.

He very carefully does not react to that, which makes it all the more interesting.

“Are you saying,” Root says, moving her hand down to where he is hard underneath the fabric of his expensive suit, “that you're not fucking him? Imagine my surprise.”

She tries hard not to preen, she really does, but oh, _that_ makes it so much better, knowing she gets to have this when Reese has been eating his heart out forever.

She plans to say something else, something along the lines of Harold already _owning an obedient dog_ , but Harold slides a hand between her legs and her brain rather abruptly goes offline. She has seen Harold perform tasks that require excellent hand-eye and fine motor coordination, she should have predicted this.

He is analytic about it, watching her response to everything he does, and that makes her want it even more, the feeling like she is a skill he can master, a piece of electronics to manipulate. Root has her hands fisted in the fabric of his waistcoat, wrinkled where she dug her fingernails in. She is trying to hold still, but she can't help thrusting against his clever fingers, little, desperate movements of her pelvis.

“Like this? No, that's not quite it, I see,” Harold says, apparently talking to himself, and then he does something with his fingers that sends a sharp jolt of pleasure all the way up her spine.

Harold looks pleased. He slides two fingers into her and circles her clit with his thumb, and Root moans and thrusts, fucking herself on his hand.

“Come here,” Harold says gently, sounding almost worried, and she leans in to kiss him, her hips moving frantically, so close.

She gasps into his mouth when he curls his thumb against her clit. “ _Please_ ,” falls from her mouth before she can stop it.

He touches her _just right_ , then, like he has known all along, elegant pale fingers and that slight frown on his face, and she whimpers and comes hard, her eyes squeezed shut, colors flashing behind her eyelids like fireworks.

Root spends a moment panting against his shoulder after that: she has to unclench her hands from the fabric of his clothes, her knuckles white. She is already considering the logistics of getting on her knees for him: maybe she should put her pants back on, the floor really _is_ cold.

Harold, as if privy to her thoughts, gives her a rare, private smile. “You'll give both of us a headache if you keep thinking this hard,” he says.

She grins and reaches down to unbutton his pants. “I think _hard_ is the important part of that sentence.”

Harold, to his credit, manages to roll his eyes even while she has a hand down his pants: he is gratifyingly aroused, _human_ after all, hard and hot in her hand. His sex noises, she learns, are mostly soft little gasps: his breath hitches when she presses her thumb over the slit and then again when she rubs a finger beneath the head of his cock.

She strokes him until he's out of breath, his face red and his glasses fogged up. Then she takes her hand away and draws a delightful noise of frustration out of him.

“You are the devil,” Harold mutters when she slides off his lap, rummaging in her bag.

“Are you in a hurry?” Root asks, amused.

“What are you doing?” Harold asks, mildly concerned.

“Snapping a picture as proof for Reese.”

His eyes widen for a split-second, much to her delight. Then she produces the little foil package she was looking for, and he makes a soft noise instead.

She makes sure to give him a few firm strokes before putting the condom on and lowering herself into his lap: if he is close, struggling not to come, it doesn't show on his face. Maybe she should have been satisfied with what she had gotten out of the evening so far, but letting an opportunity slide is not in her nature. This, she thinks, is more than worth it: both of them gasping as she seats herself firmly in his lap, sliding onto his cock, his hands coming up to her hips again.

Root moves slowly, drawing it out: Harold's hands on her hips, bruising with the effort to stay in control. He bites down on his lower lip and she runs her tongue along the bruise, soothing it. He whimpers when she thrusts harder, clenching around him.

“It's not a competition, you know, it's fine if you come first,” Root says affably, rolling her hips against him.

“I _think_ ,” Harold says, sounding offended, “if this was a competition I surely would have won already.”

She smiles and picks up the pace, and his hands spasm on her hips when he comes, a low groan that she can feel down to her _bones_. She expects him to be out of it, later, incoherent and docile, but it takes him barely a minute to recover before he reaches between them, his cock not yet soft inside her, and gets her off again with a few expert twists of his fingers.

Curled up against Harold's chest, still sitting in his lap, Root is too glowy and post-coital to be mad: she gracefully lets him win this round, she decides. It's rather easy with two amazing orgasms under her belt.

Harold absently strokes her hair. “Are you still cold?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes his suit jacket and spreads it over her, covering her naked bottom.

Root makes a vague noise. She needs to get up, needs to shower and change, but Harold is warm and smells nice and keeps up with her mind games and made her come twice just now.

“There is a lovely bathtub in the safehouse I am currently staying in,” Harold says casually. “In case you need to warm up.”

She raises her head to frown at him. He smirks. “All I am going to do tonight, I'm afraid, is sleep, I am not twenty anymore,” he says. “But you're welcome to spend the night and rest, if you'd like.”

Root doesn't remember getting a good night's sleep in what feels like forever. Then a thought occurs to her and the grin feels like it's going to split her face in two: “Reese will lose his _mind_.”

Harold sighs, put-upon, but later, when they retire for the night, he still lets her tag along: two random strangers in the night, on their way home.


End file.
